


all that glisters is not gold

by awkwardwritersyndrome



Series: Gilded Inferno [2]
Category: Blood of Zeus (Cartoon)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, I don’t ask permission or forgiveness, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, PWP, Riding, Rimming, Seraphim is a baby, Switching, apollo is a good boy, literally this is just an excuse to write copious amounts of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28379004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardwritersyndrome/pseuds/awkwardwritersyndrome
Summary: Apollo extends an invitation to Olympus but Seraphim feels unworthy and conflicted.
Relationships: Apollo/Seraphim (Blood of Zeus)
Series: Gilded Inferno [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078517
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	all that glisters is not gold

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I’ve sourced some characterization from other Greek mythology works, but it mostly fits within the world of BoZ. I’m playing fast and loose with Seraphim’s character because he deserves a complex, and fully developed presentation. Hello, psychoanalysis!
> 
> Above all, this is porn, and shouldn’t be taken too seriously. Light a candle and relax 🧡 there’s sex in here.

All gods know of power. They live without the looming threat of death, immortal and frivolous.

All gods know of lust. A fiery emotion that consumes the spirit until it’s satiated, potent and compelling.

Some unlucky gods know of love. The ache in the pit of the soul that shifts life’s meaning to the happiness of another, it is extraordinary and cruel.

What is worse is to love a human. Such yearning can reduce an eternal being to nothing but a hollow whistle echoing through time. Humans, with their frailty and ambition, are so difficult to save, yet tragically enamoring.

Apollo was no stranger to power. He knew all too well about lust. And, he certainly coveted love. Men, women, gods, and goddesses alike, managed to capture his heart. His eyes wandered freely across heaven and earth, and found beauty in peculiar places, even so peculiar as a demon’s den. He happily went where he was forbidden, fancying affection from those he ought to hate, and serving his own needs above all. 

The passing of many millenia numbed his perception of war, it bored him tremendously. It took nothing to have a human slit their brother’s throat for greed and honor, there was no art to it, like hunting lame prey. Far more thrilling to Apollo was the idea of mortal love, having to suss out a human’s desires, and gently luring them in with dreams fulfilled. It took mastery to earn a human’s trust, and Apollo adored the labor of practice that such mastery required.

“Who do you gaze upon,” Hyacinthus asked, legs falling over the arm of a chair in Apollo’s hall. He was accustomed to the gods shifting interests. 

“A sweet boy,” Apollo admitted from his seat on the window’s ledge. “He is not at all what he seems...he is much, _much_ more.”

* * *

Seraphim pulls his wet hair over his shoulder to plait it while it’s still manageable. The tresses are a damp gray color after bathing in a nearby spring. It feels good to be clean, or as close to clean as a demon can get. His dull blue skin is brighter after being watered, and he quietly admires his bare physique while he finishes his braid.

The mirror before him begins to gleam, and a voice bellows from beyond his reflection. “You are stunning like this,” Apollo sings as he appears in the glass. “A sight for sore eyes.”

The god lingers in the prism while Seraphim does his best to choose an expression that is not excitement nor anger, but sufficiently indifferent. He conjures a lazy scowl that Apollo interprets as an invitation, stepping out into the den. Seraphim clumsily backpedals and reaches for his clothes. Before he can cover himself, Apollo steals a longing glance.

“I suppose that means you’re not happy to see me?”

Seraphim is unnerved by the insinuation that he ought to miss Apollo in his absence, conjure sweet reverie, remember their tryst fondly. Is it not enough that he’s been malleable and obedient? Why does Apollo ask so much of him? 

“I feel nothing for any god. Except, perhaps, annoyance.” Seraphim knots the animal hide around his waist with vigorous tugging that makes his arms bulge as he flexes. His fretful efforts to hold his composure are for naught. “What is it you want?”

Apollo takes in the damp, subterranean cave they’re in. The jagged corners are full of shadows, giving the illusion that there’s more space around them than actually exists. It’s odd that he always finds Seraphim in hideous sepulchral dwellings such as this. Sun can’t reach him here, and it seems a pity for Seraphim’s glorious, touch starved skin to be deprived of Helios’ kiss. Apollo wants so many things for him, but maybe more than anything else, he wants Seraphim to bask in the clear light of day from the highest peak of the heavens.

“I’ve come to invite you to Olympus.” Apollo watches Seraphim’s face for the response hidden deep in his mind but made plain in his eyes. Seraphim stares skeptically, and his jaw clamps shut to keep from speaking too soon. He considers the offer for a few moments before answering.

“Why would I ever go there?” he asks with indignation. There was nothing for him on Mt. Olympus, and surely he would be cast out if discovered in the home of the gods. Apollo heard his quizzical words but only listens to his inner thoughts, the repressed dreams of boy who once revered the gods. He approaches cautiously, wanting Seraphim to allow him close enough to touch, close enough to heal.

“No! I do not want to be changed,” Seraphim insists. Every time he changes for Apollo he loses a bit of his determination to finish what he started, and that just won’t do.

Apollo’s hopes deflate, but he persists in trying to convince Seraphim to leave with him. “As you wish, and I will go if you entertain a brief inquisition.”

Seraphim nods and moves to sit near the fire. He bends one leg so his knee presses into his chest, leaves the other stretched, and leans toward the emanating heat of the flames. His red markings look hot in the glow of the fire. Apollo imagines soothing that heat. “Tell me,” he sits beside the demon, but not too near, aware of the frail patience Seraphim possesses. “What did Hera tell you the day we met?”

 _No. Not that day of painful revelation that gave way to a consummating feeling of grief so perfectly crafted for Seraphim’s tragic life._ “What does it matter? What g—”

“You’re always so suspicious, and that would not surprise me if we had not spent so much time dealing in a language of trust. Your pain matters to me...is that not reason enough to share?”

Seraphim huffs a breath of surrender. Apollo’s reasoning is sound enough to tease out an answer, but Seraphim rarely has a chance to orate his tale—which serves as a convenient excuse to repress his miseries—so he shifts in his seat uncomfortably, preparing his thoughts. Before beginning, he looks up apprehensively, feeling like lost lamb in need of a shepherd. 

“My birth was a cruel joke. I was the first born heir of Corinth, son of a feared and powerful king, and a…” _How to describe Electra? He never knew her other than the day of her death and the vision of his birth. She was a lifeless dream to him._ “...a kind, unfortunate woman. 

“Hera showed me how my father rejoiced having a son, but was enraged to find that his wife, my mother, had been infidelitous. Zeus tricked her into laying with him and she bore him a son, Heron. To protect her bastard, she stabbed Periander and ran off under the instruction of her god, leaving me with treacherous men. I was discarded and soon forgotten. A simple servant, Ariana, raised me in the wild, far away from my uncle’s savagery. Still, his seedlings found us, and they murdered the only person I ever cared about.”

Apollo looks away, pretending not to see the tears falling down Seraphim’s cheeks. There’s nothing he can do to ignore the modest sniffling that follows. His demon is not the wretched scourge he is fabled to be. He is a storm of suffering made solid. He is the child of immortal trifling and mortal infatuation; gods and humans make the most magnificent messes.

“A throne does not make a man a king, sweet Seraphim. Men of kingly stature make every seat a throne,” Apollo says, breaking their tense silence.

Seraphim is too blinded by his grief to entertain Apollo any further. “I’m not some child that can be soothed with an asinine turn of phrase. I’m no king, and there’s no throne for me, in this life or the next, but I will take everything I am owed. Even if it requires rivers of bloods and mountains of corpses.” He rises to his feet and towers over Apollo’s seated form. Even as he looks down on Apollo, he feels small.

“Thank you for indulging me. It was a pleasure,” Apollo offers, genuine and passive. He floats to his feet and walks to the mirror. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he adds before disappearing into the glass.

* * *

Days later, after successfully besting his brother in a race to find the giant remains, Seraphim can’t help but to feel a bit hopeful. His army is growing, the gods have squandered their opportunities to defeat him before battle, and it seems that fate, for once, favors him.

There is only one person he thinks to call on in this moment. “Apollo?” he yells into his cave, his voice an octave higher than usual from his excitement. 

For a brief moment he feels foolish. Why would a god answer his call?

Then he appears, plated in gold rays, smiling expectantly. “My favorite demon,” Apollo claims gleefully. He manifests himself into Seraphim’s space without an invitation, but receives no protest. In fact, Seraphim boasts his victory with dull cheer.

Apollo does not have to extend his invitation again, Seraphim demands to see Olympus. “On one condition,” Seraphim explains. “My mount, she’ll come along too.”

Apollo grins his agreement. They hurry to the manticore’s makeshift stable and saddle her for flight. “Hold on to me,” Seraphim commands as he spurs her side. Apollo leans into his back obediently and chortles, “Don’t worry, dropping me from the sky won’t get rid of me. Hera has tried many times.”

* * *

The unlikely pair traverse the staggering slopes of Mount Olympus with ease thanks to Seraphim’s manticore. Apollo has them fly in from the north where they are less likely to be spotted. Cumulus clouds shield their path from curious eyes. 

“There, with the lanterns on, that’s where we’ll stay,” Apollo points out. His home on the mountain peak is like all the others, if not a bit more pristine, dazzling with a decadence unique to his spirited taste. His siblings often comment that he is overindulgent, even for a god.

Seraphim lands them in a grassy pasture behind Apollo’s home, between a fountain and a stable. “She can stay with my steeds,” Apollo says, giving a lazy nod toward the horses, Lampos and Actaeon. 

Seraphim hums in contemplation. He has never left his girl with other animals before. Like him, she was abandoned near a river, so he named her Potamos and raised her himself. Their bond is remarkable, and difficult to explain, so he decides to go along with Apollo’s instructions to avoid another monologue. “I won’t be long,” he whispers calmly while petting her mane. Potamos nudges Seraphim, almost as if to urge him back to his god, and he interprets her gesture as such. “Very well, I’ll go.”

Apollo waits at the entrance as Seraphim crosses the grassy pasture. As he watches the demon, he waves a finger and rouses the soil beneath his steps—more flowers, except this time they’re irises forming pillowy beds underfoot. Seraphim jumps at the first sight of them before realizing their magical source. He looks up and finds Apollo laughing. “You don’t even trust the foliage?”

Seraphim groans. “Not unnatural plants like this.” He stalks up the stairs to stand in front of Apollo and immediately remembers how overwhelming it is to stand so close. His head spins as he gazes up into kind golden orbs. He tears his eyes away before they reveal too much of his enamorment. 

Inside Apollo’s home there is no shortage of finery—skillfully upholstered thronoi, silk drapes, fur rugs, and grand bronze tables—a far cry from Seraphim’s cave.

“I want to show you something,” Apollo says with a smile. He leans against his window seal and holds out his hand to Seraphim. The demon ignores the offer but joins him at the window. He had expected to see something foolish, like a spring or waterfall known only to the gods. Instead, he was taken aback by the view. From Apollo’s window, the world looks like a map laid flat, still and intricately drawn. 

_It is breathtaking._ Seraphim scans the heavenly scene with an unusual warmth building in his chest. He grabs at his own heart to stymie the pounding. 

Apollo can hear Seraphim thinking of the world in new ways, and almost regrets breaking his line of thought. “I’m glad you came,” he admits. 

Their eyes meet again, and for a moment, they relish in simply _being..._ nothing more, nothing less. Seraphim drifts closer to Apollo, the two of them at eye level when the god is reclining so casually. He isn’t ashamed to be staring at his lips, they both know what he’s thinking.

Apollo drifts too, and they share a chaste kiss, so quick and sweet that Seraphim doesn’t change forms. The god’s lips are plush, and he tastes like ambrosia, an intoxicating sweetness. The warmth in Seraphim’s chest becomes a knot in his stomach, his body yearns for Apollo against his will, and he finds himself thinking of much better uses for the god’s mouth. 

“Not yet, sweet Seraphim.” Apollo grants him another short kiss and walks toward the front door. Seraphim won’t admit it, but he’s disappointed. “Help yourself to whatever you’d like. I’ll be back, I have a gift for you.”

* * *

While Apollo is gone, Seraphim roams about trying to keep himself busy. He looks through scrolls stored on a shelf near the entrance. He sits on every cushioned chair to measure its plush. He even sleeps for a short time. None of his meddling quells the lingering feeling of being out of place. Everything about him contrasts with the sculpted elegance around him. Being somewhere comfortable, somewhere _beautiful,_ is such a foreign thing that his mind rejects it. 

Doubt sets in and Seraphim thinks about leaving. It would be easy to take Potamos and flee, pretend he never came. He hovers at the door, looking across the pasture, and plots his return home. 

“Hello,” a voice echoes from a place out of Seraphim’s view. He whips around to track it and discovers Hyancinthus strolling through the hall. He wears a loose wrap and a knowing smile. Years of loving Apollo has taught him to expect all sorts of guests. 

“I’m Hyacinthus.” 

“Where’s Apollo?” Seraphim asks defensively. He holds his hand up expecting his bident to return to him, but his powers are no good in the home of the gods. 

Hyacinthus notices the gesture but takes no offense. “I won’t tell anyone you’re here, no need for weapons.” The beautiful man, made of olive brown skin and exquisite physique, does not show any fear of the demon. “Apollo and I, a few nymphs, and the occasional goddess, share this bed when time allows. I just came to introduce myself.” Hyacinthus bows his head, his brown hair falls away from his face and reveals the old scar underneath.

Seraphim rolls his eyes. He doesn’t like being counted amongst a multitude of bedmates. “ _Where. Is. Apollo?_ ” he growls.

Hyacinthus walks right past and out into the pasture, shouting his knowledge of the god’s whereabouts over his shoulder. “He was sneaking into Hera’s wardrobe last time I checked.”

* * *

There’s barely a sound when Apollo returns through the front entrance. His steps dust the ground as he finds Seraphim reclined in a chair, diligently polishing his bident. Apollo considers letting him be, he seems content in his task, but the god cannot contain his own excitement.

“Look,” he exclaims, startling Seraphim out of his seat. 

“Don’t do that!” Seraphim’s knuckles go white as he grips his weapon, adrenaline pounding in his head. “It’s bad enough I could be found at any moment. Your stealth is going to send me to Hades before my time.”

“Apologies,” Apollo replies with a cheeky bow. To make amends, he reveals the gift hiding behind his back. Slowly, he holds up the glimmering wool of the winged ram. Few humans know of the Golden Fleece and its importance, so Seraphim stares blankly, reluctant to ask about the gift.

His lip curls into a snarl as he waits for more explanation. Apollo brings the fleece closer and dons it over Seraphim’s shoulder, laying it aside his horns, brushing against his neck. He smooths it down and smiles warmly, “stunning.” Apollo’s hands fall from the fleece, down Seraphim’s chest, breezing over his molten scars. 

Seraphim shifts his weight and sends his eyes everywhere but Apollo’s face, lest he see something irresistible in those aureate eyes. Apollo is concerned about Seraphim’s apprehension and asks, “do you like it?”

“I don’t have a need for this,” Seraphim responds softly.

Apollo cups his face, ignoring the twitch of doubt he spots. “Not everything in life is about need, sweet Seraphim. Some things are about desire.” He gently guides a turn of Seraphim’s face toward the mirror so he can see his own majesty. “The Golden Fleece can make a king of any man...make a king of _you_.”

For the first time since arriving in Olympus, Seraphim sees his place in a world of gods and giants. The gold looks radiant against his skin. His heart raps against his ribs, almost painfully. Never before has he felt _this_ feeling.

“Wear it for me?” Apollo requests, giving Seraphim the power of choice.

The demon—really, a man made dark—answers with a craning neck, a firm hold on Apollo’s shoulder, and a bend in his feet to add height...a kiss.

It takes a while for Apollo to realize what’s happening, that he did not have to lure Seraphim in, that he came willingly. 

He accepts Seraphim’s timid kiss, parting his lips unconsciously. A warm tongue slides into Apollo’s mouth, slowly indulging in the faint notes of ambrosia. Seraphim’s eyes are closed but he remembers Apollo’s mouth with embarrassing detail—the curve of his teeth beneath sensuous licks, the balminess of his waiting lips, the hum of his throat swallowing every press of Seraphim’s tongue.

“Can I,” Apollo murmurs into the kiss, to which Seraphim nods. 

Apollo encircles Seraphim’s waist with his arms and embraces him with curative and firm strength. In Olympus, Apollo has greater command over his powers, and returns Seraphim to his human form except taller, stronger, more godly. The magic of the gods wash over him until he is barely mortal at all, more a specimen of unbridled brawn.

With great difficulty, Apollo leans back to see Seraphim, lock onto his deep brown eyes, and admire the work of his healing. The god’s gaze is intense, renewing Seraphim’s awareness that he is woefully outside of his comfort zone. “What?!”

“You _look_ like the king you were meant to be,” Apollo replies sincerely, lovingly. He doesn’t wait for Seraphim to say more. He doesn’t wait to serve the king he’s crowned.

He uses the fleece to wrangle Seraphim into another bruising kiss, this time there is no modesty, only heat and devotion. He sucks at the tip of Seraphim’s tongue, lighting a fire their bellies that blazes low and deep. “I’d like to undress you, but please—“

Seraphim nips at Apollo’s bottom lip to protest and interrupt the continued talking.

“Mmmm, leave this _on?”_

Seraphim nods and gives the god’s hands room to undo the straps of his bottoms. The hide and leather fall to the ground and they step around it, blindly walking towards the bed, trapped in a kiss they wish to never end. 

The edge of the mattress trips Seraphim, but he happily collapses, pulling Apollo with him, searching out every exposed bit of flesh, then finding more as he rips off the fustenella. Seraphim’s broad hands cup around Apollo’s ass to aid in his grinding. Their exposed cocks rub against each other, erect and trapped below Apollo’s weight. The god sways his hips, giving them both the friction they seek, until they're unbearably hard. As he humps, a neediness grows in Seraphim’s every move—gripping at two round cheeks, brushing his fingertips over a quivering hole, lifting his head to suck trails of pleasure along the silken skin of Apollo’s neck. 

Seraphim whimpers when his need becomes too much. “This seems cruel,” he concedes through gritted teeth. Apollo spreads his legs on either side of Seraphim’s thighs and sits up on his haunches. His length is thick and heavy as it bounces between his legs, and long enough for the tip sweep against Seraphim’s. They both can’t help the dribbles of cum already wetting the sheets underneath them. “Cruelty is not my brand of mischief, sweet Seraphim.”

Apollo takes Seraphim’s shaft in one hand and places the other on his chest. He carefully strokes while his thumb plays with Seraphim’s pretty brown nipple. “I only want to make you feel good.”

The cadence of his voice is entrancing, like a spell perfectly tuned to Seraphim’s quiet desires. His cock twitches in Apollo’s hand as he looks up with hooded eyes. “Please.”

His ask is so kind, yet salacious, that Apollo abandons the foreplay. He moves down to the foot of the bed and drops his head into Seraphim’s lap. His golden tresses blanket Seraphim’s thighs and he caresses them, following every touch with a wet, open mouth kiss until he reaches the perineum. 

Impatient and stricken with lust, Seraphim bucks, pushing as much of himself near Apollo’s mouth as possible. The god grins, happy to know how much Seraphim wants him. He wraps his fingers around Seraphim’s cock and dips his mouth down low. Then lower, still. He coats the puckering hole with dripping flicks of his tongue, occasionally testing Seraphim’s composure, or lack thereof, by pushing into the ring of muscle. Each time, Seraphim’s legs quiver and he emits a carnal growl. His sense of self is dissolving and he’s desperate to be full again, to be illuminated by the light of a god as he fucks him wild.

Precum continues to spill, making a river of Apollo’s fingers. He relishes the weight of Seraphim in his hand, barely capable of tempering his own desire.

“Hnnnn, Apollo, I—“ Seraphim mews feebly, writhing under his god’s touch. “I need release...I need you.”

“As you wish.” Apollo moves his grip to the base of Seraphim’s shaft and takes as much of him into his mouth as possible. The girth stretches his jaw open, smothers his tongue, and prods at the well of his throat. Breathing is barely his concern as he sucks up and down, slow then faster, matching the pace of Seraphim’s breathing. “Apollo,” he groans, feral and tightly wound, “Hnnn _...more.”_

More is what he receives. Apollo enters Seraphim with a sylphlike digit, fingering the supple flesh until he is pulled in deeper. With his mouth suctioned around tip of Seraphim’s dick, and his finger curling into his tightness, Apollo can feel his human coiling into a knot of elation. 

A surge of heat begins where Apollo’s mouth is, and spreads to every corner of Seraphim’s body. His lungs lose air, eyes slam shut, and mind goes blank. The only thing that exists is him and Apollo. His hands search wildly before finding purchase in Apollo’s hair. Seraphim holds him still and fucks into his maw as he releases, cum pouring against the god’s tongue.

Apollo swallows his sweet Seraphim, suckling until the orgasm passes with subtle shivers and heavy breaths.

When Seraphim’s mind clears, and the hum of bliss falls over him, he finds Apollo by his side, tracing the scars on his chest with feathery delicacy, occasionally petting the Golden Fleece. “Was this your way of asking me to stay longer?” Seraphim asks.

Apollo nods. He doesn’t need a response to know his efforts were successful.

* * *

Sleep takes Seraphim for the rest of the day and much of the next morning. Helios has dragged the sun high into the sky by the time he wakes. 

Apollo made good use of Seraphim’s slumber. He gathered them a morning feast of fruits, goat milk, lamb, and oats drizzled in honey. Everything was hand picked and fresh, unlike Seraphim’s usual meals of captured hare and mead. 

“What’s all this?” Seraphim asks when he rises from the bed.

“You are full of questions.”

“If I weren’t, I’d be a fool,” Seraphim declares, stretching and yawning as he walks over. He takes a seat at the opposite end of the table and plucks a bundle of grapes from their vine. He eats them half a dozen at a time, they burst all at once so the juices run down his chin. Apollo is heartened to see him enjoy the mundane luxuries of life, and Seraphim catches the god looking too long, “Even a fiend like me knows not to stare.”

“I’m a god, I don’t abide by the same rules,” Apollo retorts haughtily. 

“You ought to.” Seraphim rolls his eyes and wipes his face with his bear hands. His etiquette could use some work, especially given his current patronizing, but Apollo doesn’t mind. He is enamored with his human, flaws and all.

Food is barely sustenance for a god. Their hunger is satiated with the hunt, the thrill of trapping something wild, the satisfaction of possession. Apollo eyes Seraphim and feels his hunger being quenched. Staring was the politest manifestation of his cognizance. Otherwise, he would have Seraphim to eat instead of breakfast.

“I’m beginning to think gods don’t need food.” Seraphim viciously bites into a leg of lamb as he waits for Apollo’s inevitable quip. After the lamb, he takes a swig from a chalice before knowing its content. The liquid is cool, and sweet, and thicker than water. His eyes widen from the chill that fills his throat.

The surprise on his face amuses Apollo, spurring him to make his way to the other end of the table. _“That_ was ambrosia,” he explains before rubbing Seraphim’s shoulders, whose brown skin flushes with burgeoning strength. “Like it?”

There is no true way to describe his delight, but Seraphim’s lips stretch into a smile, the likes of which Apollo has never seen. Joy is an uncommon mask for Seraphim to wear, but he wears it well. 

Gratitude is his next emotion. He wants to show his gratitude in a language he and Apollo share. Seraphim takes his god’s hand from his shoulder and pulls him around to the narrow space between his lap and the table. Instinctively, Apollo straddles Seraphim and steadies himself by grabbing locks of raven hair. There’s a soft hiss, but he knows it’s a request for something harder, and hotter.

Seraphim’s pulse becomes loud in his ears as he swells beneath the gossamer silk Apollo gave him to sleep in. The effects of the ambrosia muddy his thoughts, all he knows is desire, all he perceives is the weight of Apollo in his lap. He kisses his god’s collarbone, then bites when his hair is pulled, then sucks when it’s yanked again. 

“I don’t bruise so easily.”

“I accept that challenge.” Seraphim let’s his teeth sink into the flawless skin he has drawn into his mouth. His length rises to full attention as Apollo responds with strained mewling. He may be immortal but his flesh is made pliant for Seraphim.

The sucking becomes rougher, nails rake down Apollo’s back, he drops his head and lets his vision blur into the vaulted ceiling. Seraphim moves on to erect nipples, grazing his teeth there, asking between assaults, “how easily—mmmm—do you receive?”

Panting makes it hard for Apollo to respond but he gathers his strength just to moan, “easier than I bruise.”

Seraphim’s silk tents, and dampens as his cock weeps. Apollo moves the thin fabric, wets his own fingers in his mouth, and lubricates his entrance. Seraphim palms Apollo’s waist, lifts him slightly, then spears into him slowly.

Apollo takes his time adjusting to the size, being stretched again, giving himself over to his human. His dick rests on Seraphim’s abs and finds blissful friction as he rides.

They reach a mutual rhythm—Apollo grinding down on Seraphim recklessly, and Seraphim thrusting up into Apollo. Every pump stokes the fire rushing through them until they are raging hearth, thundering towards heaven’s peak.

“Yes, Seraphim—come _with_ me.” 

Seraphim takes Apollo’s mouth and swallows every moan that follows. He pins him down, fully impaled, and comes inside him, hot and careless. 

Apollo’s body lights up into a golden glow, and he does the same, pushed over the edge by Seraphim’s pulsing cock inside of him.

* * *

The next morning Seraphim is awake first. He enjoys the view from the window, and listens to the songbirds. He dares to believe that staying is an option. What if Apollo can make this dream permanent? It’s a dangerous hypothetical to consider.

His reverie is interrupted by the sound of Potamos’s frustrated growl echoing from the stables. Seraphim is in his human form but he moves as fast as lightning. He stumbles to a halt when he finds a woman saddling one of Apollo’s steeds.

“Get away from her,” he growls. The woman could be a goddess, or a nymph, or an illusion conjured by Hera to reveal his presence in Olympus, but he doesn’t care, Potamos is his only concern.

“I’m not bothering your beast,” she spits. The woman finishes her work and mounts the horse she chose. She peers down at Seraphim, annoyed by his sharp tongue but intrigued by his presence, sensing that his human form is unnatural and strengthened by magic. “Apollo has outdone himself this time.”

“Leave!” Seraphim yells. His guttural voice is a stark contrast from his soothing touch with Potamos. Her energy shifts merely because he’s near, and she nuzzles his hand. Human, demon, or otherwise, her bond with Seraphim is cemented, unbreakable.

“If I were you—“

“I did not ask for advice,” he interrupts, but the woman just scoffs and continues.

“I would mind my tongue and be more cautious. The next person you find on these grounds might not be so understanding of Apollo’s sexual proclivities.” She whips the reins and begins to leave.

“I’m not...I don’t know what you think you know, but I’m sure you’re wrong.” Seraphim clenches his jaw to the point of pain. Potamos can sense his anger and tries to cheer him up with a nudge under his chin. He presses his forehead against hers but it only momentarily distracts him.

“I know that your time in his bed will surely end like the songs he plays on his harp. It is beautiful while it lasts, but it can’t go on forever.” The clopping of the horse’s hooves rings in Seraphim’s ears as the woman disappears into the pasture. When Hyacinthus was coy, Seraphim thought little of it, but now, _two_ strangers had spoken of Apollo’s whims. It was hard to ignore his concern that they were right—he is nothing but a bedmate for the moment.

“It’s time to leave, Potamos.”

* * *

The sun shines into the hall as it peaks in the sky. Apollo is awake and getting dressed when Seraphim returns. The initial joy of seeing his human quickly morphs into worry. Seraphim’s feet are heavy, his shoulders tight, his face flattened into a scowl. If he didn’t need his bident and leather hide, he wouldn’t have returned at all.

At first, Apollo watches nervously as Seraphim gathers his things, but he stands when he notices the haste of every movement. This is not the Seraphim he fell asleep with. Apollo fastens his cape before asking Seraphim what happened outside. The explanation is rushed, fragmented, and disorganized like a child explaining their fears.

An unfamiliar rage takes over Seraphim’s voice. It doesn’t burn white hot like his need for revenge. Instead, it smolders deep red like his markings, and clouds his mind. This rage is born of disappointment, a surprisingly new experience for him. He’s never had to stomach it because he’s never expected much of the world. “I am not your precious Hyacinthus, or Iphigenia, or some nymph. I am _not_ the king you want me to be. I am your reckoning!”

He beckons his bident, though the effort is futile, and tries to charge towards the door, determined to storm out of Olympus away from Apollo, and away from the disappointment.

“Seraphim,” the god calls out, pleading under the bass of his words. After all they’ve shared during their short time in Olympus, Apollo is fearful that he’ll never see him again if he leaves like this.

He sighs relieved when his sweet boy halts his departure. “I didn’t mean to offend you with my other lovers, I only meant to show you that you are enough for any man, or god.” Seraphim’s shoulders rise and fall as he stands in place listening. “Please...stay.”

Apollo holds his hand out to Seraphim’s back, but the gravity of his request is known without need for sight. Seraphim can feel his god pulling him back in with something much stronger than magic. Apollo draws him back with _love._

When he turns around, Seraphim is a giant made small, delicate, vulnerable. A tear wanders down his reddening cheek, brought on from overwhelming uncertainty. “Why? Why choose me when you could have anyone? I can’t stand these games.”

“This is no game,” Apollo starts, cautiously stepping closer. “Nor a trick...I brought you here to show you the life you can have if you abandon this campaign for war and death. You can be happy, Seraphim.” He lays a hand upon Seraphim’s chest, the drum of his heart is magnificent. Powerful.

But Seraphim backsteps, untrusting and unsure. His tear dries against a scowl. “And who will see to it that I live like this? Even if I abandon all I’ve worked for, I’d be—“ the words stick in his throat because they are hauntingly true. _I’d be nothing,_ he thinks.

“I will. I will make you happy, sweet Seraphim. If only you would allow me.”

Once more, Apollo lays his hand on flushed brown skin, hearing the flustered thoughts of his human. Of all the men in the world, and all the emotions he can possess, Apollo has chosen to love _this_ man. The heart is so simple, but it weaves complicated webs. No amount of godly power can free them from the trap they’re in. Surrendering is all that’s left. 

The tears fade, the ire dissipates, Apollo intertwines his fingers with Seraphim’s. A familiar force brings their bodies together, nose to nose, breathing each other’s air. “Would you allow me to do that?” Apollo asks, unashamed to be the one with the questions.

Seraphim taps his teeth together and shuts his eyes. It is so hard to let go after a lifetime of fighting. The entire world has been his enemy until now, his spirit is weak, his heart aches for rest. Still, he struggles to release.

A tender, light kiss to his cheek makes it easier. Apollo’s love makes it possible. Seraphim looks up, brown and citrine eyes meeting, truly seeing his god’s face for the first time. “I will.”

_He will. He does._

Clothes are shed. Bodies collide. Hands frisk. Lips converge. Nothing in Olympus, perhaps the whole world, can keep them from connecting this way. Apollo spins Seraphim around and presses his front to Seraphim’s back, running his hands from scarred chest down to warm pelvis, carding through the soft curly hairs. He works Seraphim into full stiffness, hefty and reactive the slightest caress. Apollo inhales the salty scent of Seraphim’s hair where it falls over broad shoulders. He hopes this is not their last time, but savors it as if it might be. 

His cock seeps onto the perfectly round flesh of Seraphim’s ass, desperate to be inside. Seraphim reaches back and fondles Apollo’s length before guiding it into his depths. “Hnnnn—slow,” he whispers, still inexperienced and anxious.

Apollo abides with one long, steady advance. Then he keeps his cock fully sheathed deep inside so Seraphim can tighten around him, squeezing his thickness before relaxing again. Seraphim’s hole flutters as it’s stretched open, and he fears he’ll lose command of all his senses. A gnawing pleasure begins to build, turning every bone in his body to dust.

Willowy fingers fit in the grooves of Seraphim’s abs glossed over in sweat, and rest there, feeling every taut jolt rattle through him. Apollo only holds him still, pistoning with tempered pace, singing sweet poetry in his ear. Hearing, feeling, and knowing is enough for Seraphim’s erection to reach its max, hardened into steel, dripping prematurely like raw honey from its comb. Apollo wicks it away with one finger, and brings Seraphim’s nectar to his mouth to consume the taste of him. 

Seraphim growls at the sound of Apollo sucking and cries out the god’s name.

Apollo takes hold of Seraphim’s ponytail like reins, and fucks him hard until he ejects viscid, pearly, ropes of cum onto the floor. The god does the same, rupturing into Seraphim with staccato spurts until his gilded seed flows down Seraphim’s thighs.

“There is no one in Olympus who can give me this,” he pants in Seraphim’s ear.

Through the haze of euphoria, Seraphim collapses into a nearby chaise and says between heavy breaths, “you mean no one in this life or the next.”

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine a third installment, likely after the war, to complete this trilogy. No guarantees.


End file.
